Something New, and Exciting
by Ash Light
Summary: "He should have told her that she was gorgeous, an utter vision, that every man would be watching her." Sybil and Branson are left hopeless, and maybe still just a little bit hopeful. chapt 3.
1. Chapter 1

**Something New and Exciting**

Because they're quite possibly my favourite new ship ever...Little musings between Sybil and Branson from the end of episode 6 through to episode 7. Very few spoilers that I can think of.

1.

"Branson, could you help me?"

It's on the tip of his tongue to growl no – Thomas has slunk off for a smoke without so much as a by-your-leave, leaving him to help poor William carry the luggage of the departing Grantham family down to the car. Off to London for God-knows how long. For the most part he's almost relieved. Since the count he's been avoiding censorious eyes from Lord and Lady Grantham, cringing with shame every time Matthew Crawley comes to the house. He's spent roughly twenty hours in total hanging around the servant's quarters hoping to catch word of how _she_ is, three consecutive days pacing up and down the cramped little kitchen of his cottage, and every moment he's awake berating himself for being such an utter fool. And now…well, his arms are filled with trunks – how many dresses do the women of Downton _need_ – and his legs are beginning to cramp, buckle under the weight. He nearly snaps no – until he recognises the voice, sees Lady Sybil peering at him from behind her bedroom door.

Lady Sybil. The one reason he's most decidedly _not_ looking forward to the Grantham family travelling up to London.

"I – what can I do for you, mi'lady?"

Her face is around the door, the rest of her hidden. "I need some help with this frock."

He clears his throat. "That might be Anna or Gwen's department. I only know about cars."

"Oh no, that's not what I meant! I just – well it's awfully vain of me, but I was trying on my ballgown, and Edith and I had this terrible quarrel about my dress for my presentation to their Majesties, and - she mentioned that I bore a distinct resemblance to…well, a to cabbage stump. I believe that was the phrase!" Sybil giggles, presses her fingers to her lips, he can't but help admire how adorable she suddenly looks. "And I'd ask Papa, for a man's opinion you know, but he'd say I look nice no matter what, and I simply can't go to London looking as if I belong on a salad dish!" She blushes, apologetic. "I hope you don't find me terribly silly – "

"Not at all." The idea had never popped into his head – all he can suddenly think about is how endearing she is when she's nervous, and how strange it is that the same young woman who plunged headlong into a political riot at Rippon is panicking over a new frock. "Let's see the damage then."

"Thank-you Branson. I know you're busy, but I do trust you to be honest with me. Well then – " She steps out, gives a twirl. "Tell me the worst."

Well.

Wow.

He…well.

It's not even the dress – which, despite the fact he knows nothing about ladies' fashion, he has to admit is a nice one – white, and all flowing and draping and decidedly simple. It's the fact that that dress, on her – it's not glamorous, like Lady Mary, or homely like Edith, but simply graceful, in a way her sisters could never achieve. There's nothing showy, no attempts to make her look more fashionable than she already is. She just looks beautiful. Cabbage stumps are most definitely the last thing on his mind.

Alright, so he's been aware that she's pretty before – the day she trooped down to her family wearing those trousers and beaming as if she were something out of _A Thousand Arabian Nights_ without a care in the world. The fire that gets in her eyes whenever she talks about politics, the way she smile at him in the car when they talk. The time he held her in his arms when she was injured at the count, although it probably hadn't been the best time to notice it. But now – well. He can't imagine a more beautiful woman in the whole of London.

He's suddenly very aware that he's dropped one of the trunks on his foot. It hurts quite a bit, now that he notices.

Sybil's looking at him expectantly. Belatedly aware that she probably wants him to say something, not gawk at her like a complete idiot, he blathers something vaguely poetic and charming about her being 'pretty as a picture', watches her eyes light up like stars in utter happiness. Her hand presses briefly against his arm in thanks before she disappears back into her room, leaving him standing outside with a bruised toe, an armful of luggage, furious with himself that he didn't say anything better. 'Pretty as a picture'? What was that? When he should have told her that she was gorgeous, an utter vision, that every man would be watching her, that he'd have to be watching her to make sure none of the fancy London set wouldn't try their luck.

Because he won't. Be there, that was. Some other chauffeur will ferry his Syb – his _family_ back and forth from the balls, someone else is going to watch her talking giddily with excitement, someone else is going to wait outside while she dances the night away with handsome, rich bachelors the whole night through.

He grits his teeth. The end of her debutante season can not come quickly enough.

2.

Don't get her wrong, the London season's utterly thrilling – being presented at court, glittering balls, tea parties, Ascot, polo matches, walks through the parks – she can't imagine ever going without it, can barely imagine going back to life at Downton. But something's missing, something she can't place.

It's not that she's ungrateful. She's enjoying herself immensely, her parents are proud, Granny nearly floats to the ceiling with each new bachelor that approaches. But it simply doesn't feel right. She doesn't enjoy going for long drives as much as she used to. The chauffeur at London's a pleasant enough man, greying, a little portly, with a gruff Yorkshire accent. Sybil's sure he's lovely in his own way. But he's not the same.

One day when it's just her and Thompson driving the car to buy a new hat, they pass a procession, a pair of Suffragettes chaining themselves to buildings. Her eyes widen. By now Branson would be talking nineteen to the dozen, pointing out sights, declaring what brave women they are for sticking with their convictions; they'd be having such a jolly time by now. She leans forward, suddenly hopeful. "Thompson, what do _you_ think about women's rights, the gap between the poor and the aristocracy?"

"Couldn't say, mi'lady. I reckon things should stay as they are, and it'll be a simpler world for the lot of us if they do."

Sybil sinks back into her seat, defeated.

3.

"Another two weeks of London, all glamorous and excitin'." Daisy clutches a dirty dishrag to her heart, does a gentle pirouette. Even Mrs Patmore doesn't have the heart to scold her. "Oh, they must be enjoying themselves so!"

"Well, I don't envy Anna and Miss O'Brien," Gwen laughs. "Imagine all the dressing they'll be doing, off to a different ball each night! And it's Lady Sybil's presentation; she'll be so excited!"

"Imagine all the dances!"

"Imagine all the men she must be meeting!"

It's been going on like this for almost a month now, the female staff giggling and gabbing on and odd as if they had nothing else do to. Sometimes even Mrs Hughes joins in! He grits his teeth, continues flicking through the paper. He's not interested. He's not.

"I got a letter from Anna yesterday saying that Colonel Daulby's eldest son was very taken with her. Can you imagine? And him so handsome!"

He's _not_ interested. He's not – oh, sod it.

Maybe he is. But only because he has a vested interest in Lady Sybil's welfare – after what happened in Rippon he's determined nothing should ever trouble her again. And he knows what the aristocracy's like, all those men weighing up young girls as if they were prize mares, making salacious comments behind brandy glasses and port. He's only sorry he can't be there to look after her.

Gwen glances over, chewing on her fingernail. "It's Lady Sybil's ball tonight, isn't it?"

It is, he's been counting down every day for the last month. Under their eyes he gives a noncommittal shrug. "Don't know. Suppose it must be."

He most certainly is _not_ jealous.

4.

Marcus Daulby asks her to dance at each consecutive ball, his palms damp on her dress, hair shiny with pomade. She supposes it's meant to look smart, neat and tidy – but _honestly_, what a ghastly smell! It's terribly shallow of her to think it, but there it is. Besides, the way he talks, asks her opinions on housekeeping and rearing children, it's as if he's interviewing her for a post at a factory! He laughs quite loudly when one of the footmen trip over his own feet at Lady Statham's ball, makes rather infuriating comments about those 'damn fool Suffragettes'. But truly, it's the hair pomade that makes her skin crawl.

It's odd – growing up with two sisters she's seen her fair share of bachelors trooping through the doors, most of them rather handsome in their own way. But when she thinks of the type of man she'd like the look of, she can only get the vaguest idea of sparkling eyes and fair hair, a flash of a grin cast over one shoulder, the barest touch as she steps from the car, light as a sigh, the brush of a snowflake. Tall – but, well, not _too_ tall.

Dear friends provide inspiration in the most unlikely ways. That's all she can say.

5.

"Well then, Mister Branson," Carson rumbles as he finishes up breakfast – with O'Brien gone there's no-one to say where he may or may not eat. "Time for you to go to the station."

He's halfway down the hallway before he realises what day it is. What this means.

Then he starts to run down the length of the passageway. It wouldn't do to keep Lord Grantham waiting, not after a long train ride.

6.

"There's Branson at the platform, right on time," Papa comments as the train drags to a halt. "Good to see he's taking his job seriously once again."

"God knows what he's done in our absence," Edith remarks just a little too tartly for Sybil's liking. She sounds rather unpleasant, not that it bares thinking about. "Probably set light to the drapes and knocked down the – Sybil!"

She doesn't quite know what possesses her – the glimpse of that familiar figure all in green through the carriage window and her stomach feels all strange and constricted, and her heart suddenly flips as if she's swallowed a butterfly. It must be the first glimpse of home, for she's a country girl after all, and Branson's a dear, dear sight after all this time. And then she's pushing past her ridiculous sister and hurrying down the passage way, neatly jumping down from the carriage step before a porter can assist her down. She's so unused to stepping down from cars or trains that the sensation feels like she's flying.

Alright, so she trips, just a little, her skirt snagging against the train door. She hears Mama call out, sees Branson dart forward to catch her. His arms feel awfully strong when he sets her down quite neatly on her feet, kind and strong and very _there_.

Mama and Papa are already beginning to scold before they've even got down themselves, but Branson's chuckling. "You Suffragettes," he grins, "you always need a man to get you out of trouble."

His Irish accent's as lilting as ever. She's forgotten how nice it is.

"Why Branson," Sybil laughs, smiling up at him with the sun on her cheeks and a breeze dancing over them, "don't tell me you're beginning to turn Tory!"

"God, I hope not."

It's the same as it's always been. Suddenly she's so happy to be home.

Impulsively she squeezes his arm, even before he can bow or go to open the door to the car, or do anything silly like that. "It's so very good to see you again."

7.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" he asks as he escorts her to the car the next day. "It's all the maids have been talking about."

"Oh, very much." She claps her hands happily – on another girl the gesture would look affected, she merely appears happy beyond belief. "I had such a lovely time, Branson, you wouldn't believe! The dancing, and the races – and we actually drove right by Parliament! It was so exciting!"

They're paused by the car, without beginning the journey – it's a habit they've picked up, talking for ten minutes or more without even bothering to begin. One time they talked for so long that by the end of the conversation she'd quite forgotten where it was they were going. Ordinarily he'd enjoy it, but now – now as she talks on about how lovely everything was he can't quite bear to listen. It's all she can do, talk about what a wonderful time she had in London, away from Downton, away from him.

It's making him miserable. His emotions – what he's feeling - whatever _it_ is that makes his gut turn somersaults when he sees her, makes him hold her hand for just a bit longer when she steps out of the car – well, it's putting him through hell. He knows quite well that the worst part of his job would be driving Sybil to those balls, seeing her look so beautiful and know it's for every man there but him. He also knows it was even worse not being there at all, letting some other driver steal those moments from him.

Whatever _this_ is – it's decidedly unenjoyable.

As casually as he can manage he clears his throat. "I heard something about one of Colonel Daulby's sons?"

She glances down, suddenly looks everywhere but where he is. "Marcus Daulby, yes."

Hmph. Marcus Daulby. He's never seen the man but he can imagine his type – unpleasantly handsome, rich, charismatic, charming. Bastard. He probably doesn't give her books on politics or drive her through the park.

…Not that he ever would.

"Did you…get on with him?" He somehow manages to force through gritted teeth.

"I suppose."

A sudden flare of hot, sour emotion hits him.

They'll probably be engaged before the summer's out. Wonderful. Brilliant. Isn't that just fantastic –

Her bashful laughter suddenly cuts through. "Oh God, Branson, he was awful! He was so patronising, and I swear his hair smelled of animal grease! I haven't been able to talk to anyone about it – Mama's so fond of his mother – but it was simply dreadful!" She pats a hand against his shoulder, almost absent-mindedly. "And he didn't give me a single decent bit of conversation the entire season. Honestly, I wish you'd have come just so I could have someone to talk to!"

Well then. Suddenly he feels a lot better.

8.

Mary still hasn't spoken to Matthew about the Great Matter, nor does she plan to, it seems.

"Really Mary," Edith murmurs, just a little bit smugly. "He'll think you won't want him because of the baby."

"Don't be ridiculous," her eldest sister snaps as Anna begins to dress her hair. "Just because of your precious _Sir Anthony_ doesn't make you an expert on men; far from it in fact. Anyway," her eyes soften as they land on Sybil – they've always been far closer as sisters, "it was Sybil's turn for the spotlight this year, and I dare say she deserves it. Do you have your eye on anyone, dearest?"

She glances up, caught off-guard. It's not that she's absent-minded, she's simply been reading – a book Branson's leant her, the biography of John Stuart Mill. It's his own, dog-eared and pages falling out, all yellowed and tatty. He's even annotated it, a careless scrawl, underlining certain parts and occasionally writing little comments that make her laugh. His name's on the front cover_, Thomas Branson_, smudged and faded beyond belief.

When she turns to speak to Mary she holds the book up to her chest, if only to hide the subject manner.

"No. No-one."

9.

He begins to worry that someone else might know the summer's day he waits for the women at Rippon to drive them back home. They're all there, drifting down the road as if they were a flock of swans; Lady Mary, Lady Edith, Lady Cora – the tiniest, most perfect bump beginning to protrude from her dress. They all smile gracefully as he opens the door, it seems he's forgiven for the incident at the count. And Syb – _Lady_ Sybil, he must never forget that, bringing up the rear as usual. When she steps up to mount he presses a hand against the spot between her shoulders, just to steady her. Just a reflex. Her smile is bright, winning, as always.

"Really, I don't see why you're so interested, Mary," Lady Edith says as they begin to rattle down the road. Her voice is somewhat sullen. "How does my friendship with Sir Anthony concern you?"

"Believe me, Edith, nothing that poor old bore does concerns me…"

"Will both of you stop it? This instant!" Lady Cora's looking daggers, the stress of the baby must be getting to her. As he glances up at the rear-view mirror, another force of habit when he's driving the women – alright, driving _her_ – he catches Lady Sybil leaning against the side of the car, cheeks flushed pink with the heat, utterly bored with her sisters' squabbling. She glances up, catches him watching, grins. Her eyes are sparkling.

He can't look back on the road soon enough.

But Lady Mary's not done yet. "Just because I'm a little practical in my thinking while you're carrying on like some little school girl…"

"I most certainly am not! I get on well with Sir Anthony, I'm just not so intent on money and titles as you!"Lady Edith glances around for an ally, skips over Sybil, Lady Cora, who's jaw has begun to set in exasperation, lands on the back of his head. "Well, let's ask a male opinion, shall we? Branson?" (He doesn't think she's ever addressed him by name, or ever addressed him at all for that matter) "What do you think people should marry for: money or love?"

"Really dear, don't get poor Branson involved in your squabbles. You're making him uncomfortable."

"Well, it's a fair question Mama! And besides, we know so little of our servants' lives while they see so much of ours; I'm simply taking an interest." He knows she's trying to be kind, in that odd, desperate little way that Lady Edith has; nonetheless this line of questioning is beginning to make him uncomfortable. "Well, Branson? If you could marry for love, and nothing else, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, leave him alone," Lady Sybil replies sharply from her corner of the car.

In that instant one name, one face shoots into his mind without him even realising how it got there. He pushes it out as swiftly as if it were a red-hot poker.

"I don't know, my lady, I'm sure."

When they return to Downton Abbey he holds his hand out to allow Sybil to step down. Her hand squeezes affectionately against his as they part.

Of course Lady Edith only questions him like that because it's a strike against her sister. Whatever _this_ is – he's sure she has no suspicions.

It would be just his luck, for Lady Edith to understand his own emotions before he did.

10.

He doesn't know what possesses him to do it – the euphoria just sweeps through him, through everyone, and suddenly the three of them have their arms around each other and they're laughing and jumping and good old Gwen's nearly crying with happiness, and his heart's just thudding so painfully, with joy for Gwen's success yes but also because he can't believe how wonderful this young woman is, that she'd push for so hard and so long to help her maid achieve this dream. And all he can do is feel all this emotion sweep through him and they're all standing there under Mrs Hughes' eagle eye and he doesn't quite know what little demon takes hold of him, but suddenly – all he can do is reach out and entangle his fingers with hers.

It's stupid, completely stupid, a spur of the moment thing he should never have done, but it happens, as easy as that. Her hand doesn't pull away – quite the opposite, in fact, she clutches back, and he finds himself thanking God he isn't wearing driving gloves so he can feel her skin against his through her white lace gloves. Finds himself wondering that, if simply touching her warm skin through gloves is enough to start his mind reeling, what must it be like to dance with her as equals, hug, hold, even kiss…

And then Gwen moves off and the spell is broken, he finds himself looking down at their enjoined hands, as if to think: _you great fool Tom Branson, whatever are you doing?_

Sybil's staring too. Her lips are parted slightly – not that he's looking – and her eyes are widening: her look is quite impossible to discern.

The knowledge of it all hits him like a ton of bricks.

_Oh God. She's...I'm...What a hell of a thing to happen._

He's not even sure what he's saying when Mrs Hughes stops him in his tracks. That's probably a good thing.

11.

"It's awful, isn't it?" she murmurs, as the guests begin to leave.

Branson nods grimly, shakes his head. The clouds are beginning to drift over the sun, as if alerted to the news. "They're already saying it'll be over by Christmas, that all Germany needs is one show of force and it'll all be over." He grimaces. "I don't believe it."

Neither, she realises sadly as she moves to stand by him, watching the servants start to dismantle the canopies, does she. Whatever's going to happen, it's going to strike all of them, affect each and every one of them. Sybil suddenly realises she's quite frightened.

Without quite meaning to she leans against him, quite weakened, only needing support for a moment – but Branson wraps an arm around her shoulders, rubs his spare hand against her arm, allows her head to sink against the crook of his neck. Her eyes flit briefly closed. It's a terrible breach of propriety of course, and Mama will go spare if she's seen, but right now she needs someone to support her. His cheek leans comfortingly against the top of her head.

"Do you know, I really feel quite scared, Tom," she mumbles into the thick fabric of his coat.

She feels a ripple of a chuckle going through him.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," he admits, releases her just a little. "It's just, you've never called me Tom before."

That's true. It's never occurred to her before. On the grand scale of things, it somehow seems quite unimportant. "No," she muses, "I suppose I haven't."

He escorts her back to the house without being asked, refuses to leave until she's safely back with her parents. His hand remains pressed against her arm the whole way back.


	2. Chapter 2

Oh, this ship. I love it so much - this was meant to be a one-shot and now I can't stop writing. Plus I very much want to write some Violet Crawley at some point, if only because Grouchy!Maggie Smith = so many different kinds of win. But for now, Sybil/Branson love, which is just as good, and even cuter.

1.

"You shouldn't just settle for the first man who looks your way, you know," Mary murmurs late one evening, when it's just the pair of them sipping drinks in the garden staring out over the vast expanse of Downton. She's been imparting more of these little nuggets of sisterly wisdom ever since Matthew. Sybil supposes it's her way of making sure she doesn't make the same mistakes. "You shouldn't be like Edith. You should find someone you care for, who shares similar interests."

She sighs, "Don't be unkind," but without any real conviction. Whatever this latest rent between her two sisters, she doubts it will be fixed with words. They haven't spoken in two weeks. And then: "Besides, where am I going to find anyone with similar interests to me? All the men we know are only interested in hunting and farming."

"Oh, I don't know. One or two are interested in politics, that sort of thing."

"Not _my_ kind of politics."

Mary narrows her eyes, imparts what might be considered a sly, knowing look in her direction. "So you can't think of anyone who shares your views?"

What is she getting at? "No."

"Really? No-one – no-one at all – who has your vision of the vote for women, rights for the poor, that sort of thing?"

"No!"

Her sister is sounding quite infuriated at this point. "Sybil. Darling. Dearest. You are saying – with hand on heart – that you can think of no-one in our little corner of the world who is _remotely_ interested in your peculiar obsession with politics and civil liberties and – oh, all of that nonsense you talk on?"

Her heart's beating quite swiftly at this point, as if someone's shining a light in her eyes even though the sun's setting. Because of course she can think of someone, someone very important, who thinks like her, shares her opinions and views, her passions. And that person is currently washing down the car in the crisp evening light in front of the house, and he's their chauffeur, and she doesn't even know why she's thinking like this. Yes, she looks forward to going out in the car more than she used to, and yes, sometimes she catches herself watching him as he drives…But that means nothing. It has to mean nothing.

Besides, he's the dearest soul she can think of. She won't sully his reputation with gossip.

Granny's words echo through her head: '_She isn't until she's married, and then her husband will tell her what her opinions are_.' Supposing she married someone who'd never think like that, who'd never seek to control her every thought because he knew her own worth?

Sybil pushes the thought hastily from her mind. It's the most ridiculous thought she's had in quite some time. Besides, she knows that's not what Mary's getting at – if she yields to Mary's questioning, she'll simply laugh and tease her about an infatuation with the staff before moving off-topic. Mary's not seriously considering Branson as anything other than a friendly flirtation, it's not her way to see a friendship, a relationship with any of the staff as anything meaningful.

So she shakes her head and repeats: "No."

Mary rolls her eyes, lets the matter drop. "Really, Sybil. You're lucky you're pretty, for you can be very slow at times."

Sybil merely smiles, glances over to where Branson is starting to wash down the windscreen. A faint whistle comes from his direction, an Irish folk tune she believes. "Yes, Mary."

2.

Ever since the garden party he's been distancing himself ever so slightly – stopping taking walks around the garden when he's not busy on the off chance he'll see her, stopping trying to catch her eye in the car. Now that he knows what this is (really and truly knows, the kind of awareness that he can't hide behind denial and vague claims of innocence to himself) he has to put a stop to it. Maybe he can pretend it's for noble reasons, protecting her virtue from scandal and rumour, or even to keep his job, but the truth is he's just too weak to be around her and know she doesn't feel the same way.

Still, he's not quite so weak that when Lady Sybil storms out from the house one morning, hat askew and hair straggling beneath it in the breeze, he leaves. He's not a complete fool.

"Can we just go for a drive?" she implores before he can say anything. "Please?"

It's on the tip of his tongue to say no. Three seconds later he's starting up the car.

"They're both so utterly impossible," Sybil mutters angrily as they chug down the road. "Both my sisters are so dreadful – if they're not ignoring each other to the point of madness they're screaming like a pair of alley cats, throwing things – throwing books! – if you can believe it! I don't even know why…"

Branson notices her cheeks are turning the colour of roses, as they always do when she gets angry. He no longer drags his eyes away as he would have done a month ago. Why bother?

"I left them alone for ten minutes, and when I returned they were yelling and crying, and both baring their teeth and claws as if they were about to turn into gladiators at a Roman amphitheatre!" It amazes him, how even when she's angry she continues to make classical references. "Oh, they make me so angry – " She breaks off, catches him watching, subsides. "I suppose you think I'm very naive, trying to make two sisters get along."

He can't help but grin. "Not necessarily, mi'lady."

"What do you think, then?"

"That they're both very unhappy women who need time to deal with their lives." He might be apart from the rest of the servants, but he stills hears gossip, about Mister Crawley, Sir Anthony. And then, because she's still looking so down and he can't help himself: "And they're both very lucky to have you as a sister."

The look on her face is worth everything.

3.

They've started taking walks together in the gardens. Sybil doesn't even know how it came to pass – one day she set off, book in hand, trying to find one spot in the entire estate where she _couldn't_ hear her sisters screeching at each other, and there he was. And now it's ritual, wandering through the gardens together, sometimes coming to sit under the trees at the bottom of the green, or in his garage with the car bonnet up. Papa doesn't know and Mama turns a blind eye; she expects Mary's filled her in on Sybil's little infatuation. They're all expecting her to make eyes at him as if she's some sort of besotted girl, talk sweet nothings once or twice and then fling him aside. Edith did it three years ago with a footman, Mary with a stable-hand. They consider him dispensable fun and little more.

Just wandering and talking. Sometimes about politics, often about the war. They're well into the last week of September, there's no sign of a stop yet. Two of the boys working in the stables have volunteered; yesterday they got word that William's joined up too. Papa's considering resuming his commission once more; Mama goes to bed weeping each night.

Branson's heavily against the whole idea. "I don't agree with it on principle. It's a foolish war, a family feud between the various heads of state in Europe, a whole load of pompous generals with no thought for the men whose lives they're wasting." He sees her catching and blushes, as if she thinks him a coward. It's rather sweet really. "But if I were called up – ordered to fight in some way, I'd be happy to serve along with the men that have already joined up. They're a brave bunch of fellows, all of them."

"Well you mustn't go. I need you here." She notices nowadays that she uses _I_ where she should say _we_, has started thinking of herself as Branson's sole employer. "Who will teach me about politics and ethical theories if you go?"

"Your father's library almost _built_ for that sort of thing."

"Papa's library? Oh, it's not the same, and you know it." She's stopped, turning around on their path to face him, and very seriously places her hands against his shoulders. "You'll have to swear an oath, that you'll never go off and fight in a war and leave me all alone."

He chuckles; the sound's warm, incredibly pleasant in her ears. "Oh, I will, will I?"

"Of course."

"Bossing me around, are you m'lady?"

She's often seen Mary flirting with men, far too many men than is good for her, never knew it could ignite such a warm spark in her stomach as it does. "Maybe I am." When Branson nods, amused, she clears her throat, takes his right hand and raises it for him. "I, Thomas Branson, hereby swear never to go off to some horrible corner of France and get myself killed, to always stay here at Downton and teach politics to Sybil Crawley, and to not abandon her to the mercy of her dear but rather tyrannical grandmother and her dreadful sisters."

Impressively he manages to get through the whole lot without laughing, though his eyes are alight with mirth when he finishes. "There, I swear it all, hand on heart. Very good m'lady."

"Sybil."

Branson pauses, mid-step. "I'm sorry?"

"We're friends, aren't we?" Sybil doesn't even realise what she's doing until she reaches out, tucks one hand into the crook of his arm and prompts him to keep on walking. "If we're friends, you must call me Sybil."

She doesn't see the way he grins, the way his eyes linger on her as they continue to walk. At least she pretends not to.

4.

One day when they're driving back from the shops at town – despite everything he adores about her, Sybil Crawley enjoys shopping far too much for such a revolutionary – she elects to sit in the front seat with him. No amount of protesting can convince her otherwise ('Really Tom, do you think I'll be thrown from the car if I don't watch out?'; she calls him Tom now, when no-one's around, and that thrills him more than he can bare), so she's there, perched in front and staring as if there's a completely different view in front of her; and he's driving far more carefully than he ever knew and viewing every pothole as if it had the capability of killing her.

Fifteen minutes into the drive, she falls asleep.

It's nothing to worry over. Only her head sort of lolls against his shoulder, and the whole weight of her body seems to rest gently against him, her hat slips to one side so her hair's all soft and whispy against her forehead, and he's driving so slowly so as not to wake her – oh alright, so he can relish the moment. Her lips are slightly parted and her eyelashes a dark sweep against her skin. Her breathing's as soft as a whisper. It would be so easy to stop the car, to lean down and kiss –

And then what? He's known men in his time who took advantage of privileged places in rich households with pretty young mistresses. He's not one of them.

The next pothole he sees he deliberately aims for, so she jerks awake with a small cry. When she realises where she is she abruptly scoots back to her side of the car, as fast as she can.

5.

"How do I look?"

She'd rather swallow pins than worry about what that awful O'Brien woman thinks of her – why Mama keeps her on she simply doesn't know – but she's going down to the gardens to meet Tom, and suddenly it's very important to know whether she looks nice. Pretty. The kind of girl that men like him will look at.

O'Brien blinks at her, as if she's stupid, as if she's wasting the lady's maid's valuable time just by speaking to her. "Your mother's serving tea in the library. There's no guests, no gentleman of interest."

"I know _that,"_ and that she plans on taking her tea out in the fresh air as soon as she's able, "I'm just asking – well, how do I look?"

The older woman's looking at her as if she's barmy. There'll be some stories going around the servant's quarters this evening, that's certain. "Lovely, m'lady. As always."

Until now she's never given a fig what O'Brien thinks. But now she breaks out into a smile and starts to run for the stairs, pausing only to grab a white rose from a vase on the window sill to place in her hair.

6.

They've been dancing around each other for days now – both awfully polite, barely making eye-contact, voices stilted echoes of their former selves. He doesn't know why, what's suddenly brought this on, what's changed in her. And then it all comes to a head.

It's late autumn, but warm, ridiculously so, an Indian summer day, they call it. They're down by the river, weeping willows and hazel trees bending over the water, and he's sat leant against the largest one, arms behind his head, a book in his lap, coat discarded. For a while Sybil paces up and down the bank, incredibly excited about the opportunities for women with men going to war every day, but eventually she tires herself out and comes to sit by him. As the sun begins to slip downward she lies down on the crisp grass. Her head rests against his leg.

He doesn't know if she's noticed, but he's definitely not going to point it out. As a matter of fact he's making plans not to move for the rest of the day.

"Do you know, I even suggested to Papa about applying for a job in an office somewhere, perhaps in Cousin Matthew's office," she talks quietly, staring up into the trees above them. "Of course Granny overheard and almost had a stroke, but still…"

He's usually on edge at the mention of Matthew Crawley – no matter what may have happened with him and Lady Mary, he can't get the memory of him escorting Sybil back into the hall that night – but this evening everything seems lazy and relaxed and he can't quite bestir himself to get annoyed. "Mhm," he agrees, quite laconically. "It's a good idea."

"Oh, do you think so?"

Why does she always seem to need reassurance, particularly from him? "You're a strong woman, m'lady. One of the best I know. Of course you should, if that's what you want."

Another brilliant grin, another sparkle of the eyes. It's so easy to summon up, but that doesn't diminish the wonderful ache in his chest whenever he sees it.

As she begins to talk again he absent-mindedly stretches, relishing the glory of the day, of the moment, all of it. One of the last leaves clinging to the hazel above them flits down, ends up landing in her hair. She laughs, ignores it. With a shake of his head, and a mutter about the idle rich, he plucks it from her brown tresses – which are so soft he can't quite believe it. A few strands have escaped from their pins, they fall over her forehead. Without quite thinking he brushes them away.

Her voice falters briefly; when she resumes talking it's muted somehow, her eyes fixed on some point far above them both.

He can't help it. It's as if something else is controlling him, that same little demon that made him take her hand that day at the garden party, that told him to stop the car while she was sleeping. He has to know. Nervously – far more frightened than he's ever been in his life – he reaches down to sweep away another stray hair from her face, and then again, until his fingers are just grazing her, stroking her hair as she speaks.

When she stops talking he's almost convinced he'll suffer some kind of seizure from the way his heart's drumming in his chest.

Only this isn't a game, and he's walking such a thin line it's impossible to even know where the line is, and dear God, there's every chance he might have ruined everything. He doesn't know when he's ever been so anxious and thrilled at the same time. Sybil's watching him, her dark eyes holding his, her expression the same as that day of the garden party – surprised, breathless, utterly unreadable. He thinks he knows her so well, look at him; he has no idea what she's thinking.

"Syb – " He can't quite finish it; despite her insistence to call her by her first name he's never managed it.

Sybil sits up suddenly, her hair dishevelled, cheeks flushed. She seems agitated, edgy, and he knows he's done it, spoiled everything. "I need to go in," she whispers, arms flapping as she hurries to gather her things together. Her eyes are oddly damp. "I need to go – I'm sorry, Mama will be expecting me – I'm so sorry."

She sounds it, truly.

Branson nods. He understands, even if he feels sick to his stomach. When she sets off at a run to the house he genuinely contemplates throwing himself into the river, but desists on the grounds that poor little Daisy will have a nervous breakdown at another death at Downton.

Instead he chooses to walk slowly back to the hall, at a respectable distance.

Fool. Utter bloody fool. He's not strong enough to keep himself around her, not like this, not when everything can tip on a knife edge, and things are so fragile as they are. And now – well, as his dear old Mam would say, and probably Mrs Patmore too – now everything's shot to buggery.

He's only just reached the gravel that rings around the hall, planning to forego the company in the servants' kitchen to sit and curse his own bloody stupidity, when Sybil runs straight back out again, straight for him.

"Branson –Tom – "

"I'm so sorry," he groans, because while he couldn't give tuppence for the aristocracy and all their precious rules he does care for her, and her good name, and her well-being. If he's made her ill at ease because of this, uncomfortable where she ought to feel safe, the blame is entirely his. "That was completely unforgiveable of me, I should never even have thought of such a thing; a-and I understand if you want to tell his Lordship – "

"Tom!" He's never heard her shout before, not once, and breaks off simply from the shock of it all. She takes a step closer to him. "_I_ am the one that's sorry – truly sorry." Another step, until he can just feel the heat of her; her hands press against his chest. And she's close enough that he can see her smile; nervous and radiant and desperate and wishful all at once. "I should never have run from you."

And just when he's convinced the whole world's gone mad and him with it, she leans up to press her lips against his.

He isn't sure how long they stand there for, lips gently touching, arms encircling each other delicately as if the other were made of glass. He isn't entirely sure of anything; beyond sensation. When they pull away they both laugh, nervously, almost shyly, two children who can't quite realise what they've done.

"M'lady – "

She giggles, still so close he can nearly taste it. "Don't you think you should start calling me 'Sybil' now?"

"'Sybil'," he repeats, and smiles. The word rolls like music in his mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

They could _so_ substitute Sybil and Branson for Christian and Satine in Moulin Rouge. Think about it - star-crossed lovers, he an idealistic, revolutionary minded poor boy, her a succesful girl trapped in a lifestyle she's somewhat ill-suited to...there _are_ similarities.

If anyone fancied making a mock-up trailer...

**1.**

"I'll speak to my father, you know."

Two weeks, maybe three, he hasn't really been keeping track of time lately. He's been…preoccupied. But the weather's starting to slip into cold, there's a crisp in the air, and Sybil's wrapped in some great-great-aunt's luxurious fur coat (which she insists is awfully cruel but so very, very warm) as they sit together on the bench overlooking the estate, one stolen moment of time. She's offered to share it with him, wouldn't be Sybil if she didn't, and he's refused. Far more stoic that way.

Besides, with his driver's gloves on she'll never tell that his fingers are blue with cold.

"Not immediately, of course," she adds hastily, "and not quite so bluntly, as Granny would most likely have a fit and Mama would faint and Papa would sling you out on your ear without a decent reference before the day was out; but I will. You'll see." Her hand nervously inches over to his, squeezes tightly. They're neither of them quite sure to behave - Sybil's sheltered existence has never allowed a courtship beyond kisses on hands and flowered words, and he…well there's been the odd romance between parlour maids and shop girls, nothing to get too hot and heavy over, simply because he's always thought there was something more important. Besides, this is different. She's a lady. She's Lady _Sybil_. He often finds himself quite at a loss as to what he should do with his hands when he's around her.

…Oh, not like _that_.

Not that it's not an issue. He thinks about it sometimes – alright, a lot. He knows what's said about ladies who aren't virtuous, doesn't want her name coupled with scandal and rumour, would never do anything like that. Still, he's a man after all. His dreams have been getting very predictable of late.

Sybil nudges him gently and he blushes, horrified she might have somehow read his thoughts. But no, she's smiling. "You'll see. I'm not giving up without a fight." Her own cheeks colour, and her eyes drop as she smiles bashfully. "I'm not giving up without you."

Somewhere, deep down in his heart, he knows this can't last. That all they have – shared moments together, secret looks, snatched kisses in the hallways when no-one's around – won't last long, not for a moment. That continuing down this road simply won't work.

But right now it doesn't matter that he might lose his job over this, that she might end up in disgrace, that really, there's no honest future in this, in them. Right now all he cares about is that she's willing to fight for him; because she's got enough fight in her for the both of them.

**2.**

"Did you have many siblings?"

"Five brothers, two sisters. It used to get pretty noisy in our house at mealtimes, I can tell you! But the girls are pretty far apart, age-wise, they're not as – flung together as Lady Mary and Lady Edith."

"Lucky them."

"What about your childhood?"

"Pleasant enough. Mary used to create most of the dramas in our family. Oh, but I remember this one time, I was quite young, we were down at the village fair and Papa met one of his farmers going by with a pack of dogs, all different colours and sizes, only to hear him say they were all going to be killed the next day. I was so upset, I waited until no-one was watching and then smuggled the smallest puppy home in my little basket. I kept him hidden in my room for two whole weeks before he broke loose – my parents were furious!" She giggles, and then begins to sober. "Then Papa told me the reason the dogs had to be put down was because they had rabies, and had to be killed for the tenants' sakes, as well as ours. Golly, I cried for days after that."

Tom squeezes his arms tenderly around her, which brings a smile to her lips. It's a quiet day, quiet enough for her to beg Christmas shopping as an excuse for her to slip swiftly down to his cottage, a swift walk from the house. They're in what might be considered a parlour, a tiny, cosy little room with tiny, cosy seats; she half-perched in his lap with an abandoned book of _Romeo and Juliet_ resting on her knees (while his collection of political and historical literature is commendable, she is taking it upon herself to introduce him to the glory of the Bard, no matter how many times he rolls his eyes. He, on the other hand, laughs fondly at her failure with anything mechanical, and swears that one day he'll teach her to drive). Just sitting, talking, sharing secrets. Sybil's beginning to prefer this room to any of the grand chambers at Downton.

She knows of girls who have done this sort of thing before, clandestine romances with members of staff or tenant farmers, for the rush, the illicit thrill of forbidden love, star-crossed lovers in the night. It brings a sour taste to her mouth. _Honestly_. As if love was a game, and those men a toy, to be caressed and petted and then flung away when they're not needed. For all these women's whispers over the thrill of secrecy, the horror that they may be discovered and shamed at any moment, they know they aren't truly endangered. Their part in the game will be hushed up, glossed over with strategic marriages (which of course they will happily go into, now that their fun is over) it will be their poor, pitiful lovers who suffer for it.

If they were discovered tomorrow she would jolly well keep that promise she made to Papa all those months ago after the count, walk after Tom with her head held high and not look back.

"Tell me another secret," she requests softly, resting the flat of her palm against his neck, feeling the faint beat of a pulse beneath her thumb. She really should be going, Mama's planning a New Year's cocktail party that she wants help with, is audibly scheming to introducing her to some 'absolutely fascinating diplomat's son – from Brazil, darling, you'll love him'. But she can't quite bring herself to mention it to him. She's not strong enough for that.

He plants a kiss delicately against her palm, folds her fingers over it. "You're the best woman I know," he whispers, "and that's not a secret." And with that he strokes his fingers against her hair, as if he relishes the feel of it, and rests his mouth against hers.

**3.**

"Gracious," Anna comments as he pops into the kitchen one morning after driving old lady Grantham around, hat stuck at a jaunty angle, whistling cheerfully. "You do seem cheerful all of a sudden, Mister Branson."

He does rather like Anna, a kind-eyed sisterly soul who never passes by a soul in need if she can help it – even if he does want to shake her and poor old Bates by the shoulders and tell them for the love of God to _get their act together_; because all their darting around and sharing secret smiles and lingering looks is incredibly distracting – and yes, given the circumstances, he knows it's very hypocritical of him. But honestly.

"It's a nice day, Anna."

"No, but really." Hand on hip, she narrows her eyes at him as he makes a grab for the paper. "You've been going around all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for a while now."

"Is it a girl?" This from Daisy, dreamier than ever and plaintively dictating letters to Mrs Hughes to send to William every week. "Is it? Oh, wouldn't that be romantic?"

"Now then Daisy," he winks. "Where'd I have time for a sweetheart, eh?"

Mrs Hughes is watching him with a steely look that could strike down buildings. He pretends to ignore her.

**4.**

The snow's landed, crisp and white, in a thick veil over the entirety of Downton when Mama approaches, letter in hand, fairly shaking with excitement. Christopher Donnally. Father rather important in the House of Lords, mother the survivor of a rather shady past but positively _dripping _with money, darling. And yes, I know you seem to have some sort of ridiculous abhorrence against anyone with a title or money, although _why_ I simply do not know, but he's a lovely man. Charming, almost dashing, very well read. A friend of that dear Mr Napier, do you remember him? (She does, a very nice man who most definitely did _not_ deserve to be passed over by Mary in favour of flirting with the admittedly far more beautiful Mr Pamuk). And his mother, a darling if not somewhat eccentric creature, has asked if he might stay for a few weeks while he's up in the country on business. Won't you be a darling and look after him, Sybil dear?

She sighs heavily. She's already promised to spend whatever she can with Tom, reading, going for long, aimless drives in the country, whatever takes their fancy. But she's already escaped Mama's dinner parties two incidents in a row now, she's bound to get suspicious. Carson's already started to look at her oddly when she tries to sneak out the door, he's somehow always there just when he's not needed. And besides, Mama does need a rest, a favour. The house has been especially gloomy, ever since Cousin Isobel let it slip that Matthew is thinking of enlisting. Mary spends most of her evenings hiding in dark corners and concealing her tears, Edith smirks and wrings her hands all at once over the fate of poor old Sir Anthony, disappeared off to Russia on some sort of diplomatic mission. Papa's bewildered beyond belief and Granny simply tsks; and Mama's left to pick up the pieces.

Besides, she's optimistic, willing to believe the best in people. It's unfair to dismiss a man without even meeting him. She's sure he'll be perfectly nice, in that bland, pleasant way most of Mama's ensnarements usually are.

"Of course, Mama. You can count on me."

**5.**

He doesn't pay attention to the young man in the back of the car for the whole journey back from the station. Some poor sod they've imported in to cheer up Lady Mary, still suffering over the prospect of Mister Crawley being blown up in some dark corner of France, he guesses.

(He never even thinks of the notion that he might be for Sybil. This is what being around her has done to him, made him thoughtless)

He's in a good mood right up to the moment when the man steps out, when Lady Cora greets him with a radiant smile and then, before any of them can so much as blink, adroitly adds: 'And you remember me telling you about my darling daughter Sybil, of course?'

(_My_ darling Sybil, he wants to mutter)

She doesn't seem taken aback by what appears to be something of an ambush, smiles that bright, charming smile as she softly welcomes the young man to Downton, enquires after his journey, makes some witty little comment that he can't hear but summons laughter from all those surrounding her. She knew this was set up. She didn't tell him.

(Maybe that's what hurts the most)

When they move to go into the house the man offers her his arm. After a second of hesitation she slips her hand into the crook of his elbow.

(No. It turns out that _that_ hurts the most)

The look she shoots him over her shoulder is rueful, utterly apologetic. He can barely summon up the flattest of smiles before turning to attend to the car.

**6. **

He's a nice man, a kind, decent soul, and that worries her more than all the other pig-headed, boorish, stuck-in-the-mud types that have been pushed towards her over the months. There's none of the fierce passion that infects her Tom's voice when he starts talking on rights and equality, but a gentle conviction, a soft patience that seems dependable and solid and sweet. Tall, well-built, a sweep of dark hair and a wry grin. And Mama was right, he is very charming. He recites Shakespeare by heart and can quote Keats at the drop of a hat.He's utterly disarming. Her parents beam all through dinner.

Sybil finds she gets on with him extremely well, and that frightens her. It cannot happen.

Drastic measures need to be taken, clearly.

"What do you think of women getting the vote?" she enquires sweetly. It's a dirty trick, and well-practised, one she picked up quite by accident in London. The simple question will convince any bore that she's some radical, crazed hair-raiser, and drive him off without so much as a breath of effort on her part. Surely this will push him away too, free her from this confusion.

To her utter shock, he smiles.

"To be perfectly honest," he replies, "I find those women to be incredibly brave."

Her grip loosens on the champagne glass she's currently holding; it nearly slips from her grasp.

"Don't mention it to my father. He's an awful stick in the mud," Christopher winks. "But we have to move with the times, yield to the inevitable changes. Why, what do _you_ think on women and the vote?"

For the first time since she's even heard of the notion, she's utterly speechless.

**7. **

Sometimes he wants to take her away from all this, away from _them_, the landed aristocracy that think they're so much better than the rest of them. The Granthams are a decent lot, but he still remembers the way they looked at him after the count, the looks that spoke volumes. _We think you're a decent chap, but remember who you are. You have a role to play, a place to fill. Stay in it._ Sometimes he can't believe the one thing he wants to fight against is the one thing he's working for. Sometimes all he can think of when she steps in the car is driving away from here, far, far away. She's the best one of the lot. All he wants to do is take her away from them.

The next day he's called up to bring the car around, only to belatedly discover he's taking the Grantham family and their _guest_ (the word sours in his mouth) on a picnic. Picnic his eye. Lord Grantham claims work, Lady Grantham oh-so suddenly remembers a much needed visit to the Dowager Countess' annex and drags a protesting Lady Edith away by the arm; Lady Mary walks to the car with a smirk on her face and then discovers she has to see to her beloved horse. He drives the two remaining figures to the woods with his teeth gritted so painfully he nearly cries out.

They seem to have a thoroughly enjoyable time from what he can see, sat sullenly in the car a good distance away, sat on a plaid blanket and laughing together. At one point Donally offers her a piece of cake while her hands are full, refuses to take no for an answer and finally pushes the morsel into her mouth himself.

He has to get out. Sometimes he thinks he just has to get away from here.

**8.**

Sybil finally corners Tom by the garage, sleeves rolled up, bent over the car's innards, working intently. His reply to her greeting is oddly muted; he can't quite meet her eyes.

"I haven't seen you up at the house recently. Don't tell me Papa's been threatening you with dismissal if you refuse to give up your socialist literature," she offers nervously, trying for levity.

"I've been busy," he says to the car's engine. "Both have, I reckon."

"Don't say that."

He glances up, manages a rueful smile, seems genuinely contrite. "Sorry."

Oh, it's not his fault. None of it is. If anything, it's all Mama's fault – Mama, who's been acting like the cat who's got the cream all week. Suddenly she feels a stab of guilt dig deep between her ribs. Christopher's a perfectly lovely man – she's sure he'll make some woman very lucky – but Tom's…_her_ Tom. Nothing less than that. And she's been carrying on like some giddy child without a second thought for his feelings. It simply isn't fair.

"Listen," she says hastily, taking his face tenderly in her hands before he can move away from her again. "I know that this past week has been – well, distracted, but I've been helping Mama. That's all, nothing more." She feels him break into a smile beneath her fingertips, feels inspiration strike home. "Listen: tomorrow, after dinner, I'll claim I've a headache, come round to visit. We can catch up."

Somehow she knows the utter absurdity of her suggestion, what it might mean. A clandestine visit after dark – they've never done anything like this before. She knows what it means, what it might lead to. A flicker deep down inside whispers she doesn't care.

**9.**

He waits. Stupid word – he expects, he anticipates. He's nervous, so nervous that when he pours a cup of tea for himself half the liquid splashes out of the mug, because he can think of nothing more than what's going to happen when she comes, what's going to happen to _them_. So he's nervous, yes, and intrigued and desperate and excited; and so many emotions churn through him he can barely breathe.

He waits. Paces the length of the kitchen to kill time, flips idly through one of the books she's left behind at some point. _Othello_, he notes without paying much attention. Nine o'clock, ten o'clock. His breath halts in his throat occasionally. His hands dart to straighten some piece of furniture, a knickknack or two, even though he went over the cottage from top to bottom the second he returned, even begged an utterly bewildered Anna to check over every room in case there was something he might have missed. Eleven o'clock, twelve. He sits at the table, watching the dimming candle drip glowing slicks of wax.

When the clock on the mantelpiece strikes one, he knows she's not coming. He's never known how utterly poisonous jealousy can be, how cold it makes you, how powerless.

**10.**

She wears a new dress for the occasion – not her beautiful sea-coloured trouser suit, the one he's complimented so many times, but something new, and simple. Something that makes her beautiful, elegant, a woman. She has Anna dress her hair three times, all different styles before she's satisfied, allowing her hair to fall naturally over her shoulders like some mythical lady from Camelot. She doesn't quite know what she's doing, only that she wants everything to be so right.

Dinner passes too quickly. She's just about to beg leave from Mama when Christopher Donnally leans forward, asks if he might have her time for just a moment, as he has a rather fascinating case of a farmer he knew who's worked from near poverty up to the House of Commons.

The words slip between them, as do the hours. She doesn't realise how late it is until Papa gives her a nudge.

Mary's waiting for her in her room when she finally goes up, ready to snatch a coat and be off; eager for gossip. "Well, _you_ were certainly enjoying yourself, weren't you?" she remarks tartly, but fondly. "In future, Sybil, I might try to talk a little less; a man can't kiss you while you're chattering away like a parrot. Good heavens, it's nearly two in the morning!"

Her eyes widen. Cold slips through her bones. "What? But it can't be!" Even as Anna enters, beginning to unpin her dress, she shakes herself wildly. "I have to – I have to go – "

"What? Don't be ridiculous, you need to sleep." Mary gives a little laugh. "And don't seem so scandalised, darling, we've been to parties that lasted far longer than this. It's not _that_ late."

But she can't shake the feeling that it is, far, far too late.

**11.**

He feels sick. God knows, he probably _looks_ it – awake reading all night, eyes darting to the open window and the ground below, hoping she might come and knowing she won't, until Miss O'Brien, who's mellowed since Thomas left, still finds it in her heart to acidly remark that he looks like 'a ghost sickening for something' – but most of all he feels it. Sick, right to the stomach.

"Where were you last night?" he asks, attempting to sound casual and failing miserably. They're alone in the library, a precious moment shattered too soon.

"I told you." They've been over this before, but every time she answers she looks away it cuts just that little bit deeper. She looks guilty, guilty of something. "I was talking with the company and couldn't get away." She looks at him, imploring. "It means nothing."

He remembers a quote from that book she left. _O, beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock the meat it feeds on._ He'd not given it much thought; suddenly it's now all he can think of. And today he can feel it, mingled with that fresh scent of rain and wind and books that he always associates with her, that sweet, warm, heady taste of a lie.

Without thinking he pulls her into his arms, presses his mouth against hers just that little bit rougher, needing to taste her, to feel her, regardless of who else might come in. God, he missed her, missed her so very much last night he can barely think. He groans softly into the kiss as she responds. It would be easy, so very easy to push that little bit further, undo everything and ruin each other in the process. It's everything he wants, reckless, impossible, so very frightening.

Almost sick with wanting, he lets her go abruptly. Whatever this was, full of lightness and gentle friendliness and tentative affection is suddenly alarming and fierce and consuming; jealousy taints everything until it's black.

"If I were wasting my time," he whispers quietly, and doesn't even feel shame when his voice shakes just that little bit (even though he knows he is, knows they're both wasting their time), "you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

Sybil shakes her head, her dark eyes suddenly damp. "Please don't speak like this."

But what else can he say? They both know it, both feel it slipping away from them. It's strange and inevitable; perhaps the first time he realises there's no hope for them anymore.

**12.**

"For heavens' sakes, Tom, you needn't be so," too late, the door's already slamming behind him, leaving her standing numbly in the servants' corridor, "…ridiculous."

Sybil doesn't even know what's happening to her anymore. Brusque conversations, hurt looks, they can barely look each other in the eye anymore. When they kiss she feels as cold as ice. A simple comment – one about Christopher's MP fellow – leads to an argument, explosive and damning, culminates in the bitterest of words. That she's just like every other bored lord's daughter, killing time by looking for some dangerous fun before she moves on to her real life.

Her eyes tighten with desperation as she leans back against the wall, utterly helpless.

Of course he'll come back, press kisses against her palms, they'll both beg forgiveness and claim to forget. And lie when they say everything will be alright.

There's precious little joy in this anymore. What other girls might find exciting – the lies to her parents, sneaking out to sit and talk with him – she finds sad. There's no happy ending here for them, she knows better than to expect the ending of a novel, the poor stable boy finding happiness with the princess. While things stay as they are there's no acceptance for them, no hope.

Once she was determined to fight. Now she finds she's losing her strength.

**13**.

"If you love her," Mrs Hughes hisses, "let her go."

"How can I?" he mutters back, more angry than sad. It isn't fair. In the past few months the housekeeper's been what you might call a confidante, in a bizarre sort of way – provided they never speak of the matter outright. No names, no details, nothing that could ever be construed as anything other than a vague series of inscrutable comments. But she knows well enough.

Usually she reminds him of how foolish he is and then moves on. Tonight however she bars his way to the car.

"You might have nothing to lose," she remarks rather tartly, "but she has everything. Have you ever thought of that?"

He doesn't reply. What more is there to say?

**14**.

The Valentine's Day ball – organised by Mama, who's fairly grinning like the cat who's pinched the cream and found a mouse within – slips through her fingers like silk. Clad in red, the perfect colour for a lover, she stands miserably on the sidelines, watches as couples come and go. Edith's found a new suitor, a fumbling, bashful type with a shock of red hair who seems just her type; Mary's once more quarrelling with Matthew, visiting for the week but determined to leave for the front the moment his papers arrive. Mama and Papa are dancing slowly, caressing each other softly with their eyes. All she's left with is aching. She shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be here, should be at the cottage, the car, anywhere with him. She briefly toys with the idea of slipping Anna or Bates a message for him, dismisses it out of hand. Her options are running out.

Towards the evening Christopher approaches and announces that he and a couple of friends, a perfectly charming couple from diplomatic circles, are going for a quick spin in the twilight in his new motor; would she care to join them? Granny's watching, eagle-eyed, she can't say no.

When they step outside he's waiting by the car to take Granny home. His eyes widen when he sees her, and then turns abruptly away.

She knows he can't see her, but nevertheless mouths the word 'sorry' after him as they leave.

She doesn't see it as she enters the car, the moment when he breaks.

**15.**

"Oh, Tom, no!"

Ever since Thomas – the old Thomas, the one he could barely look at without wanting to smack that smirk off his face – left the staff have taken to call him Tom. He's found he rather likes it, particularly when Mrs Hughes does it. He feels like one of her lost souls to mother, which is an odd feeling for a grown man, but pleasant all the same. Now, however, she just sounds sad, despairing, when she comes to the door of his little cottage and he opens it, resplendent in the uniform of a corporal in the British Army.

"You said it yourself." He tries to keep a note of jauntiness to his voice, fails miserably. "You told me I have to leave her alone."

"I meant keep your distance, lad!" She throws up her hands in alarm; her Scottish accent is always the most pronounced when she's agitated. "Not – this!"

"I tried; it didn't come off." He sighs, shaking his head, realising just how exhausted he suddenly is. "It's not just her. I have to get away from here Mrs Hughes. It's everything I'm against, and being here, working for everything I oppose – " _wanting it, needing it,_ "It's driving me out of my mind."

"As an amputation of the soul, I must say, it's rather extreme."

"Maybe, but at least I know it'll work."

Mrs Hughes smiles bleakly, shakes her head. The papers are sent off and everything's organised after all, what else is there to do? All of a sudden she presses her hand briefly against his cheek, as if he were a boy of ten. "You write to us, every day, until you're home safe."

He nods, is about to go and change when he finds himself enveloped in a matronly hug. He returns it. Against all odds it seems as if he has a family here. Sybil's not the only person he's walking out on.

"I don't know _what_ you're going to tell Lady Sybil," Mrs Hughes remarks quite primly, the first time she's ever mentioned her name to him.

He doesn't either. That's the frightening part.


End file.
